The Nature of Ghosts
by Willowfly
Summary: In the jungle, Leonardo loses himself. The most tortured of ghosts are those that leave live bodies behind. Oneshot. Companion piece to 'Reflections'.


The Nature of Ghosts

By Willowfly

_A/N: For Nad, my fellow wandering soul._

He ran out of food about a week ago, but that was just a guess. There was no way of telling once the days had lost their names. He'd stopped counting a long time ago, because in the end, it meant nothing. Only weighed him down.

Once upon a time he kept a diary, wrote letters to people that tore holes in his heart, their tattered pictures pressed between the yellowing pages.

Nothing. On a cold night, his first night on the shores of Costa Rica, he'd slept in a cave outside a lonely stretch of beach. In the night, he'd woken in the middle of a dream that didn't fade, and he remembered. The spirit of the forest came to him. She'd stood at the edge of his cave near the sand, singing him a lullaby.

"Come now, little one," she sang in the voice of ocean waves. "Return the Earth who loves you like a son. Why pretend to be a man; infected by his failure, plagued with his hollowness? Cast it all away and come, be healed."

And he stumbled into the treeline with only his swords strapped to his back.

He learned from the Earth that every man was created with a hole. They build a world around themselves where thoughts and life and dreams amounted to nothing more than collecting muddy pools after long, hard rain. Eventually they'll disappear and he'll be empty again.

But he wasn't a man. He never was.

He'd fooled himself into investing too much in things that never mattered. His memories, the world, worries and possessions that bound his soul with heavy chains. It only kept him from the freedom he could know. It only poisoned him until he had no purpose. The memories were walls built around his starving soul. Emptiness was a bliss that ran far deeper.

The days stretched on and he stopped counting.

In the forest, there was a fine line between the haze of dawn and twilight filtering through the ancient trees. But he learned to feel the shift in his bones like the birds that sang before first light or beckoned in the dark. That was all he needed.

He'd been wandering for a long time to a destination he'd forgotten. But if there ever was a place, it must have been the jungle.

It was amazing here, standing under the leafy umbrella of trees; Earth's high rise offerings to the sun. Here, in the endless city of green and light and shadow, dwelt the most sacred of things—silence beyond silence; a quiet so deep it was nameless.

He could wander for days in the shade of avocado trees, running his fingers over waxy leaves, his palms against rough bark. Every step was like peeling back the layers, stilling rough waters in the cool dark of a hot day. Every breath, every footstep, every fall and rise of the sun lifted the weight from his shoulders bit by bit until it vanished. Hunting, fire building, climbing trees and bathing in the muddied pools lifted the weariness from his bones like meditation.

He hungered, but barely noticed. He thirsted, but the feeling was only a whisper. Instinct was all he needed now. The emptiness was all he knew.

He'd traveled thousands of miles and seen nothing but tragedy, pain, and cruelty. The cold had gripped his bones, the violent seas had sickened him, and the mountains only taught him he still had so much left to learn. But here, so far away from any trace of the world he's known, he could shed it like a second skin and walk bodiless for a while; shave the pain away like ice drowning in the sun.

Long ago he lived in darkness. Long ago he worried until he felt he would be crushed. That was why he had to stay. That was why he had to be empty. That was why he had to wander.

Was it a sin to finally feel free?

He'd been walking since the break of day, when the birds and monkeys chattering in the trees had risen him from slumber. He'd cracked his eyes open to the filtering light under a banana tree, disoriented by the lack of a dirt ceiling and the netting of vines overhead. Instead, he had slept miles away from his usual spot in a makeshift bed of grass and leaves.

He tried desperately to forget the reason why.

Her. The woman. He couldn't go back to the cave. Not after she had found him. It was pain that surrounded her face in his memories, a life he only wanted to leave forgotten.

So he wandered, letting the forest tell him where to go.

It wasn't long until he was approaching the village. He'd been there plenty of times in the early days—scrounging for food under the cover of night before he had learned to live off the land. And in that way, he made a bond with these people, watching over them in return.

In the beginning it was almost habit for the poachers to roar down the dirty paths, throwing up walls of dust and harassing the villagers before looting them blind. Then, they would wander into the forest, dirty and repulsive as alleyway rapists.

Every time, the Ghost of the Jungle had cut them down like saplings.

For this reason, they knew he was here, though most thought of him as little more than legend. But legends spread like wildfire among these people and were more readily believed. His presence in the forest had brought them both hope and a deep, settling fear. These men wouldn't dare set foot in the woods again. In fact, no one would.

Still, they'd leave him offerings of food at the mouth of the forest, spread on green banana leaves or ladled into wooden bowls. He hadn't been sure if these gifts were left in gratitude or an attempt to appease the Ghost, but they had saved him from starvation countless times. For that he was grateful.

But what had driven him now wasn't the type of hunger he could fill so easily. It was a howling emptiness that ate at his sinew every time he let it. It was an aching thirst that left him hearing the voices of his brothers in the trees.

She had told him they needed him. But he is far less naïve then the people of this place. He's seen the ugliness of the world outside the forest, the evils of humanity that stretch long, wide, and deep. There's a difference between fairytales and truth, and it only pushes him farther away.

He had learned to live without them. He was positive they had done the same.

He couldn't go back, not after all of this forgetting, not after shedding all this weight. He could feel a change within his soul. His shoulder blades had shifted. They weren't ready to be burdened again.

If he returned, he would break. He couldn't stand seeing the pain that would flash behind his father's eyes when he told him he hadn't learned a thing.

It was better to just forget.

The sound of young voices pressed him on, snaking through the underbrush like a predator stalking prey. He followed it blindly, green leaves like hands leading him on, engulfing his flesh as its own. He was made for the jungle. He could feel it.

He finds himself at the rim of the brush, drawn to the clearing like a moth to a flame.

Two boys the color of sun-baked leather were kicking a ball by the forest's edge. Every scuffle of their sneakers kicked up more dust to catch and twist on the breeze.

Spanish he had come to know slowly, at first from the worn dictionary he'd acquired while stowed away in an airplane cargo hold. But somehow, he'd lost everything in his wanderings save the katana on his back. Instead he'd learned from spoken tongue, voice clips of conversations that carried through the trees. The farmers, bent over their crops of peppers and coffee beans with large baskets on their shoulders, smiles like cracked leather that wrinkled their eyes. The poachers, reeking of stale sweat, prayed to their god, their _Dios_, with fear sewn in every syllable. And now the boys, laughing and wrestling with their ball in the acrid sun.

He hadn't seen children since the boat to Japan. But those sullen, hollow-eyed slaves had been more like corpses than children. These boys were still unscarred and innocent, laughing mouths and raven hair, muscles soft like coiled rope.

He watched and his hunger only deepened.

"No hay ninguna tal cosa. No lo creo."

"Sí, mi máma lo vio! Tienes miedo como ella."

"No tengo miedo de una fantasma! Es estúpido."

"Estás estúpido."

They were talking about him. _La Fantasma, _the Ghost. That was his name to these people. He had to smile at the boy's exchange of insults, the petty argument that was based, almost solely, on their _miedo, _their fear of him.

The bickering was so distantly familiar, and it made the hunger dig into his flesh. These boys were so much like how his brothers once had been—so carefree, innocent, untouched by the things the world could hold like a well-kept secret until the day you've been baptized in its blood.

Or maybe they were still the same. Maybe he was the only one that changed.

This journey had felt so much like drowning. It wasn't until the jungle air had filled his lungs that he felt like he could breathe again. Slowly, the weight had lifted piece by piece until there was nothing left of him at all. And he thought—maybe he really was a ghost. Maybe he was just a shadow of who he once had been. But of what he left behind, memory told him nothing different. He'd always been a ghost. He was born to be a shadow.

And still, he had so much left to learn.

"Aye, Ale. Mire quién viene."

The boys had stopped suddenly, dust settling around them in the harsh sunshine. The taller boy motioned to a figure approaching from the village—a younger boy, grinning ear-to-ear with a shoe box cradled in his arms.

"Aye, está Paulo. ¿Qué quiere él?"

"No se…"

By the time the younger boy had reached them, he was breathless and smiling hugely, sweat dampening his brow.

"Alejandro, Pepito! ¡Mira lo que mi padre me dio!" He panted, utterly beaming at the box he held against his narrow chest.

The two older boys exchanged a disbelieving glance before the taller one grabbed for the box.

"Déjame ver."

The boy pulled away, holding the box closer to his chest.

"No! No quiero llegar a suico."

"Ah, estás un mentiroso. No creo que."

"No soy un mentiroso!"

The older boys were getting rougher, grabbing for the box as the little boy hugged it tighter. The Ghost watched from the shadows, muscles tightening, but helpless to intervene. It was the weight again. He could feel it slowly crushing his bones.

The dust caught the air and lifted on the breeze as the boys grappled for the box, knocking the younger one down onto the dusty road. He still wouldn't let go as one of the older boys rolled him over on his back, shouting in his face.

"¿Crees que podría engañar a nosotros? Tu padre no está bueno pero nada! Él nunca podría permitirse que, a menos que se la robó!"

"No está verdad!" Yelped the little boy as one of the older boys finally ripped the box from his hands. In that instant, The Ghost was certain he had seen his tear-stained eyes pleading him for help.

He stepped backward into the underbrush, the sound of thunder rolling overhead. The sky had grown ominously dark, but The Ghost took no notice as the boys continued to shout. The box was wrenched open, then angrily cast aside. Something in his chest tightened as he watched an older boy plant a solid kick square in the youngest boy's stomach. A cry of pain, a shout, a sob. The younger boy scrambled for a foothold in the dirt, then took off toward the village. His face was stained with grit clinging to his tears.

Still, The Ghost watched.

Still, he had so much left to learn.

A storm was racing in from the horizon, snuffing out the sun as the canopy swayed in the strengthening wind. The dust cloud swelled. The boys halted at the crack of thunder and stared into the distance before heading toward the village.

The box lay in the dust by the tree line, and The Ghost watched as the first drops of rain drummed on its crumpled lid. Hesitantly, he reached into the clearing, fingering the wilting cardboard—a shoebox boasting brand-new Nike sneakers.

But when he opened the box, it was empty.

In that instant, he found the weight, the loneliness, the longing crashing down upon him with a bone-shattering force. Everything he thought he'd lost, buried, forgotten—it was still sitting inside him, awakening from its slumber.

The hunger only deepened, but now he knew there was only one way to fill it, and he wouldn't find it here.

To be a ghost, he would have to die. And still, he had so much left to learn. Still, he had so much left to live. He had traveled the world, seen the evils, learned its ugly ways. But here in the forest, he had seen its beauty, too.

The world of man—beautiful in its own ugliness. Beautiful like battle scars.

And he'd forgotten. How _could he_ forget?

Maybe April's story was nothing more than a legend, but he knew that part of it was true. He needed his brothers. He needed that weight to hold him down. Without them, he was nothing but a wanderer. Without them, he was nothing but a ghost.

As the sky sent fourth heavy torrents of rain, Leonardo tucked the box beneath a tree and slowly closed his eyes. With a breath, he stepped out of the dark forest and into the wall of rain. Lightning cracked the sky above, and heavy drops rolled off his chin, down his shell, washing away the ancient dirt and soothing his tired bones. The dust had settled, the weight had shifted, and finally, he was free.

He'd learned his lesson. He'd found his destination.

And it was time to go back home.


End file.
